"My dear!" expostulated his wife.
"I churned once when I was a boy," he protested; "and the butter came."
They all laughed, except Hester, who affectionately embraced her father's arm. "Why shouldn't the butter come when you churn, dear papa?" she asked.
"You must have been in very good humor, sir," said Carl slily.
"We don't mean to do this sort of work long," Melicent resumed. "There is no merit in doing servile work, if one can do better. Clara and I will write, and so pay for extra help. I think"—very indulgently—"that, with practice, Clara may make something of a writer. I shall write a volume of European travels. On the whole, looking at our reverses in this light, they seem fortunate. Living here in quiet, we can accomplish a literary labor for which we should never otherwise have found time."
"That is true," Mr. Yorke said; but his look was doubtful and troubled. "Still, Melicent, I would not have you too confident. I would advise you to try a story. It would be more likely to sell. Europe réchauffée has become a drug in the market, and our experiences abroad were pretty much what those of others are. A vagabond adventurer would have a much better chance of catching public attention."
Edith gazed in awe at her companions. She was in the midst of people who made books! She saw them face to face. So might pretty Psyche have gazed when first her husband's celestial relatives received her, when she saw Juno among her peacocks, Minerva laying aside her helmet, Hebe pouring nectar. This, then, is Olympus!
"If you write a story, do take one suggestion from me, Melicent," Carl said. "Pray give your hero and heroine brushes to dress their hair with. Have you observed that even the finest characters in books have to use a broom? The hair is always swept back."
Miss Yorke did not notice this triviality. She was looking rather displeased.
"I don't want to discourage you, daughter," her father went on. "But you must recollect that it is one thing to give a sketch to an editor, who is a friend, and dines with you, and another thing to offer him a book, which he is expected to pay for. Then he must look to the market and his reputation. Some of the finest writers in the world have described these very scenes which you would describe. Can you tell more of Rome than Madame de Staël has? or paint a more enchanting picture of Capri than that of Hans Andersen? If not, you run the risk of reminding your reader of Sidney Smith's reply to the dull tourist who held out his walking-stick, boasting that it had been round the world. 'Yes; and still it is a stick!' says Sidney."